


Traditional Valentine's

by rivalshipping



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivalshipping/pseuds/rivalshipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling a prompt for an absolutely wonderful exchange participant! Their prompt was: <i>valentine's is never mentioned in 221B since...however...because...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditional Valentine's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts).



> Take part in the next challenge! JohnlockChallenges.tumblr.com

John stepped over a paper packet on the way to his chair, resolutely ignoring the fact that it was leaking some kind of clear, viscous substance. It probably came from the cooler that was propped open nearby, filled with plastic bags and air-sealed, suspiciously shiny substances. The doctor looked up to find the obvious perpetrator, but the chastisement at the tip of his tongue faded at the sight. Sherlock was pacing the kitchen in a way that let John know that an experiment was going wrong, and Sherlock desperately needed this experiment to go _right_ , so John sat back, put his feet up on the coffee table (out of the way of the packet) and opened the newspaper.

Ah. February 14. Between two unsatisfactory cases—one “barely a four” by Sherlock’s standards, the other solved just short of saving the young victim—and one unsatisfactory interaction with Mycroft in the two weeks of February that already passed, Sherlock was practically fuming and John was having trouble keeping up. No wonder he had forgotten the date that had become almost as unimportant to him as any given American holiday since he stopped having long-term relationships with his quote-unquote _parade of women_.

He lowered the paper to look over at Sherlock, who had stopped pacing and was instead sitting at the table with his head in his hands. The microscope was on, sending a small round light to the ceiling that told John there was no slide on the stand. Sherlock wasn’t trembling, which was a good sign and part of a day a while back that John never wanted to experience again, but he also wasn’t tapping his feet or twisting his curls around his fingers. He was perfectly still, his spine curved over the edge of the table, feet planted on the floor.

John hesitated a moment, and then stood, stepping over the packet once again to get to the fluorescent-lit room. “Sherlock?” he asked from the doorway, pulling at the hem of his jumper and adjusting the pale blue shirt underneath. “Are you alright?”

One shoulder lifted and fell in a half-shrug but Sherlock didn’t look up. John didn’t hesitate in going to him then, reaching out to touch the base of his spine and gently kiss the shoulder that moved. As he had for the last three months, Sherlock responded with a huff of breath that could have been annoyed or could have been fond and was only explained by the tilt of his lips. John couldn’t see his lips from his point of view but trusted Sherlock was having a good reaction.

“What’s happened?” he murmured, almost placating, like coddling a child who was getting a shot. The taller man didn’t move except for his slow breaths and the steady thumping of his heart. Concerned, John lifted his hand from Sherlock’s back and instead used it to lift his chin. Sherlock went willingly but didn’t seem to focus on John at all.

After a few more tense seconds, Sherlock turned icy blue eyes onto John. “Happy Valentine’s.” It was perfunctory, like Sherlock was doing it because he had to, which was something Sherlock absolutely never did. “I suppose you want the whole ‘dinner-movie-sex’ routine tonight.” The detective didn’t roll his eyes or sound dismissive, something John would have expected and probably deemed him safe and sound for. He sounded… hollow. And more than a little upset.

John pulled out a chair and sat next to him, pressing his knee to Sherlock’s thigh. “You’ve known me for almost three years now, Sherlock,” he scoffed, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “When have I ever wanted ‘dinner-movie-sex’?”

Only when Sherlock looked back at him did he continue, “Besides, even if I did want that, what makes you think I would make you participate?” He let the question hang for a while, and when Sherlock pursed his lips instead of answering, crossed his arms over his chest. “How long have you been awake?” he asked instead, giving Sherlock a sizeable out.

“Not long,” Sherlock mumbled, obviously taking the bait for the easier question, but allowed John to take his hand and pull him to his feet. John turned out the kitchen light after pinpointing the location of the packet he _really_ didn’t want to step on in order to avoid it, and led them down the dark hallway and into Sherlock’s bedroom.

He didn’t bother to turn on the overhead lights there, instead flicking on the bedside lamp on the side Sherlock usually slept on, when he wasn’t sprawled across the middle, and pushed the detective to sit. Sherlock watched John silently help him out of his nightshirt and sleep pants to leave him in his boxers and then stand up. He made a slight noise in the back of his throat, lifting a hand toward John’s sleeve, but when the doctor raised an inquiring eyebrow at him he quieted.

Sherlock lifted the blankets and curled up under them. He managed not to startle in surprise when he felt John climb in behind him and reach over him to turn out the light, shucking his jumper and jeans with soft whispers of fabric before huddling under the blankets with Sherlock. “Didn’t think I was going to pass this up, did you?” John said against the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses along his hairline.

It was barely nine in the morning but the curtains in Sherlock’s room were tightly shut, letting in a sliver of light that split the floor and bed neatly in two. John figured they had both earned a sleep until four pm, but Sherlock apparently had other ideas, taking John’s hand that was draped over his waist to press it to what he knew was John’s favorite place on his hip. “Are you going to pass this up?” Sherlock asked, sounding almost shy.

John shook his head enough that Sherlock could feel it, pressing his hips against Sherlock’s arse. “If you don’t want sex we don’t have to, Sherlock.” He got a hum in response, Sherlock arching back and nosing at John’s cheek.

“I know. Bad week,” he said under his breath. It took all John had not to smirk at the understatement. “Make me forget?” His words ghosted over John’s lips before they kissed, John sliding his hand from Sherlock’s hip to his thigh and gently but insistently bending his knee up and spreading his legs.

They rocked slowly for a while, Sherlock alternating between gripping John’s hand on his thigh and kissing him desperately and loosening his hold, letting his head rest on the pillow. Eventually John slid two fingers into Sherlock’s pants waistband and inched them down from where they were already slung low on his narrow hips. “Budge,” he whispered.

Sherlock obeyed, kicking his underwear away and pressing more firmly against John’s pants-clad cock. “You’ll need those off too,” Sherlock whispered back, rolling his hips and biting his lip at John’s groan.

“Not until you’ve slept a few hours.” The detective sighed comically loud, smiling a bit at John’s bark of laughter. “I know orgasm puts you out like a light, Sherlock. We can do whatever you want when you wake up.” John swiped the tips of two fingers gently over the head of Sherlock’s cock, smearing precome across them and down his shaft. “Let me, please?”

Sherlock’s expression was not very visible in the low light, but the curve of his lips suggested agreement, confirmed by his soft, low moan and a squeeze of his hand on John’s. The doctor propped his knee between Sherlock’s thighs and switched the position of their hands, wrapping Sherlock’s hand around his cock and his hand around Sherlock’s. “Oh,” Sherlock breathed, starting with a slow, steady stroke just under the head.

After a few minutes of relaxed silence, Sherlock tightened his fingers and shortened his strokes, frowning and flexing his thighs around John’s leg. “Hey, hey,” John said as soothingly as he could. “Relax, it’s just me and you.” He leaned awkwardly on his elbow to sit up, moving away from Sherlock enough to sit against the headboard and pull Sherlock into his lap.

Sherlock immediately grabbed his left hand again, sacrificing his own dexterity for John’s comfort. John kissed his temple and ran his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s prick, adding an upward twist of his wrist until Sherlock grabbed his arm with his free hand, gasping and panting and stuttering John’s name.

“I’m—! Oh, John, faster—!” Sherlock moaned into his shoulder, something in the pit of his stomach winding up until it snapped, sending heat and satisfaction through him that John could almost see. He could definitely hear Sherlock’s high whines and feel Sherlock tremble against him in a very good way, riding out every oversensitive aftershock as John continued to press his thumb against the head of his cock.

John tapered off when Sherlock’s toes stopped curling, pressing another long kiss to his temple and trailing it into his hair. “Calm, Sherlock. Sleep for a while and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sherlock’s next mumble was vaguely questioning and he stretched, pressing his arse against John’s very interested prick, but the doctor only helped him lie down and lay behind him, pulling the blankets around them against the oncoming chilly air in the flat.

Quite sure that Sherlock would spend as long as his mind let him overanalyzing the last two weeks, John did the best he could to keep him comfortable and hope he slept soon. Apparently Valentine’s Day was never going to become a “thing” in their flat, but he found that he could more than live with that.


End file.
